


Pyjamas

by Boffin1710, natalieashe



Series: Moments of Life in the Shadows [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: First Impressions, First Meetings, M/M, Points of View, Pre-Relationship, Skyfall References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 12:25:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10831245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/pseuds/Boffin1710, https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/natalieashe
Summary: 007 and the new Quartermaster meet for the first time





	Pyjamas

**Q...**

Well, that went bloody well...

Heading down the outer stairs of the National Gallery, I grab a pack of cigarettes out of my coat pocket out of habit and to calm my nerves The first time I kit out a Double O and it has to be 007, back from death. Senior agent who has finally decided to grace us with his presence. We so started off on the wrong foot already. He sat there looking at me as if I was a twelve-year-old playing dress up in my Da’s suit. Questioning my ability… and I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut and snarked right back at him about the questionable need for field agents to complete a mission.

I realize he is used to dealing with the Major, but it’s obvious none of the agents ever once paid attention to the staff who constantly assisted the Major. M chose me as Quartermaster. For whatever reason she had. I hope it was for my skill to be honest. But she didn’t just randomly pull me in off a street corner and hand the job over to me.  
Well, this can go one of two ways. Either horrendously or we will find a way to just ignore that he thinks I am a twelve year old and work with me and I’ll get by the fact that I think, so far, he is a bloody pompous arse.

 

**Bond...**

Christ, this has to be the bloody old bitch's revenge; turning Q-branch into daycare for toddlers. I hope she knows what the hell she's doing handing the reins over to that smug little shite. He should be wandering a university campus with a battered laptop tucked under his arm, drinking real ale and eating too many greasy takeaways, not lording it over the boffins in the basement. I know where I'd like to shove an exploding pen...

My fingers are locked around the smooth black gun case, white at the knuckles, and I realize I am clenched against the pain in my shoulder, and the bitterness in my soul. I know why this meeting has unsettled me without having to analyze it. This snarky, fresh-faced youth (the comment about his spots was a pathetic dig that fell far short of the truth) thinks I'm past it. Should be hauled away for scrap like that bloody big ship in the painting.

I loosen my grip and flex numbed fingers. They wander to my chin, rasping over the graying stubble I hadn't bothered to shave. I know I look my age and more. The new Q has disappeared from view into the next gallery, huddled into his shapeless parka, and I have the absurd notion that I should order him a decent overcoat. Take him for a haircut to tame that mop of hair. As if a well turned out Quartermaster would improve in efficiency, give me confidence that he won't get me killed while he's still wearing his goddamn pyjamas...


End file.
